This is Planet Vaz, but no sign of the Vaz of Vaz

In the rest of Britain, an election is taking place. But not, apparently, in Leicester East. For this is Planet Vaz. Here we find no election, no campaign, no posters at all, except in Vaz's window.

The people who live on Planet Vaz have no need to be told why they should vote for their leader. For he is the Vaz of Vaz. His wisdom is unquestioned, for the simple reason that he is never there to be questioned. Why should he be? His people know his manifold virtues. If, unaccountably, they do not, the world's plenipotentiaries will tell them. In the latest publication hymning the praises of Vaz, Robin Cook writes: "He has been an astounding success as a minister... he has unparalleled knowledge..."

Other leaflets show pictures of the great one with his humblest citizens, visiting old people's homes, learning about their puny traffic problems. How fortunate they are, for normally the Vaz meets only the world's wealthiest and most celebrated people. "Keith Vaz met the world entertainer Michael Jackson and presented him with a gift... Keith told Michael he has quite a few of his records." How fitting that two controversial recluses should have so much in common!

Some colleagues and I tried to meet him. (Keith Vaz, that is: it would probably have been easier to find Michael Jackson.) We started at the Labour party offices. This is Fortress Vaz. Most such places are full of bustle and jollity. This is locked and sealed and silent. I rang the entryphone and a suspicious voice asked my business and phone number. They promised to call back. No young woman freshly seduced by a philandering rake was ever more sceptical about being phoned again.

A Mr Keith Bennett, who turns out to be the agent of Vaz, came out. "We will make a decision whether you can see him or not," he told us. The Vaz whereabouts were "a confidential matter". He was not, strictly speaking, on the stump - "but if he comes across a voter he might try to seek his support." Since we didn't meet a single voter who had set eyes on the great one, this didn't seem likely.

We rang his previous agent, John Thomas, who lost the job a few days ago, for no reason yet satisfactorily explained. Mr Thomas refused to say. No, he wasn't campaigning. "I'm returfing my lawn." Ah, the famous electoral returfing officer.

Off to a drop-in centre which he was rumoured to visit. They said he "might" be in later this week. We called on a Labour councillor who had fallen foul of Vaz. He begged us not to print his name. Bewilderingly, this man - of Asian origin himself - did not share Robin Cook's view of Vaz's greatness. "We used to have a fantastic constituency Labour party here. You'd get 140, 150 people at meetings. Now it's about half a dozen. People have been hounded, harassed and thrown out of the party."

Out to the large home owned by the great one's mother. Four cars are parked in the drive but evidently no one is in. Mrs Vaz is disabled herself, but happily has just been able to take on the onerous task of secretary to her son's constituency party, giving her a crucial behind-the- scenes role in vital votes. Back at the constituency of fice a couple of Tories, including the candidate John Mugglestone, had gathered to protest. No one left and nobody came. Two policemen stopped. "We want to report a missing person," we told them. They smiled wanly.

In Melton Road, every business is Asian and so are 99% of the people. None had seen Vaz. We called at his favourite haunts - the Friends Tandoori, the Safari Club, the Belgrave Centre. No sign of him, nor of anyone who had ever met him. The Vaz of Vaz has a majority of 18,000. He will win next month. But as one of his enemies whispered: "If Martin Bell was standing here, he'd walk in."